Maddy had awakened without hunger in a warm, soft bed after a full night’s rest uninterrupted by nightmares. And apparently, now that the critical needs of food, safety, and shelter had been met, her body had an entirely different need to contend with.
She was aroused, and his clean, masculine scent and the warmth emanating from his body were making it worse. She had to struggle not to run her fingers over his skin as she recalled the scenes from the night before—how her breasts had rubbed against his unyielding chest in the tub, or later when his hard body had wrapped around hers. Though she didn’t want to sleep that way each night, she’d felt surprisingly safe with him. His erection had pressed against her bottom, but he’d kept his promise, never making an advance.
She’d never thought she would enjoy intercourse again, but now she was beginning to believe she could tolerate sex with him—and if he could do it as splendidly as he kissed her, she might even enjoy it once she grew accustomed to his size.
Of course, this didn’t mean she planned to let him take her before their wedding. She had to hold firm on that—she knew too many women who’d been promised marriage only to return to La Marais big with child and utterly destitute.
Yet after they’d wed…what would a second attempt be like? She might not be looking forward to it, but she was definitely curious.
In fact, everything about him made her curious. For instance, why was he so skilled with a pistol? And who’d shot him so recently? She’d noted at least one other scar that looked like a bullet wound and would bet there were more on his back. What did he do that was so fraught with danger?
Who’d cut his face so terribly, leaving that bone-deep scar?
Already she had a good idea of how intensely it troubled him. But the truth was that even an aficionada like herself could see past it. Indeed, MacCarrick’s face was still captivating to her, his features pleasing and even. He had a strong, straight nose, firm lips, and a square jaw shadowed with the night’s growth of beard.
The good was so exceedingly good with this man, that it far outweighed the bad.
Maybe in the gentrified Grosvenor world he knew, people were flawless, but that was no longer Maddy’s world. She was so used to seeing Crimean soldiers returned from war with parts of their regimental uniforms empty and pinned up that MacCarrick’s scar was mild in comparison.
In the hierarchy of characteristics she needed in a potential mate, unmarred skin was not a contender compared to virility, strength, and wealth—all of which this Scot had in spades.
She mentally catalogued his good points: He was rich and seemed generous with his money. He was a sinfully skilled kisser and possessor of the most gorgeous, sculpted body she’d ever beheld. He was fierce—this Scot was no gentle giant—which suited Maddy fine.
The bad points: He was selfish, stubborn, rough, aggressive, and untrustworthy.
Would Ethan MacCarrick be difficult to manage? Absolutely. She had no doubt that she was going to have to draw on every man-managing skill she’d ever learned—and then call on every ounce of patience she could muster.
But she could do it to say good-bye to debts and her hardscrabble existence, and bonjour to a new life with a mysterious Scot who’d made her blood burn with both passion and fury.
Finally surrendering to the urge, she trailed the pads of her fingers down the underside of his raised arm, watching, enthralled, as the muscles lining the side of his torso briefly flexed. She gently brushed the skin around his wound, feeling unaccountably saddened that someone had sought to hurt him—or kill him. Why did the idea of him in pain bother her so much? At heart he was still a stranger.
She shook her head, deciding then that she wasn’t going to lie to herself anymore. Something about him had attracted her from the very first—attracted her as no man had before. She’d been overwhelmingly drawn to him before she’d seen his face and scar—she still was after. And last night, his unpracticed, awkward smile as he’d cuffed her bottom had shown her a different side to this Scot, softening her anger toward him….
After making an unhurried exploration of his chest, her finger meandered down the rigid length of his stomach. Reaching the trail of crisp hair below his navel, she lazily stroked it with her nails.
When he slid his knee up, and his shaft pulsed beneath the cover, she gasped and glanced up, finding his eyes on her. She’d never seen any so compelling—so fierce, the irises jet black with flecks of amber.
Though he was studying her face, she didn’t bother trying to disguise the desire she was feeling. His brows drew together, as if he didn’t know how to respond.
She grazed the backs of her fingers over his scar, and his expression changed, his demeanor growing surly. “Why do you sleep curled in a ball?” he asked, his voice even more rumbling in the morning. At her blank look, he said, “Sometime in the night, I got you to fall asleep against me, but then when I woke, you were curled up on the other side of the bed.” His tone was strangely accusatory.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s warmer in that position. Paris can get so cold in the winter.”
“It could no’be warmer than when you were against me.”
“I…you’re right. I just feel crowded with another in the bed.” She barely stifled a shudder. She all too clearly remembered those horrible nights in the infirmary after the fire, sharing a bed with other indigent girls, who unremittingly bumped into her ruined arm all through the night. That pain was as fresh in her memory as it had been when she was eleven. “You don’t feel claustrophobic?”
He gave her that look that she’d begun to think he reserved solely for her—a mix of irritation, scowl, and a threatening glower. “It’s no’ like you take up much room, then, is it?”
Patience, Maddy. Changing the subject, she asked, “So, are we leaving for Scotland today?”
“We’re scheduled to leave tomorrow night, but we can push that back if we canna get a week’s worth of clothing for you.”
“You’re really taking me shopping?”
“I said I would, did I no’?”
“Well, if you do everything you say you will, then that means I’m going to be married, and not hungry, and living with you in Scotland.” Today she would start a new life with this mysterious man beside her—and for once, she was delighted with her luck. “How are we going to get there?”
“A train from here to Le Havre, then by sea.”
“Ah, la porte océane. How long will it take?”
“By steamer, it’s no more than four days to the southwest coast of Scotland.”
“A steamer! I’ve never been on one, except for the Channel tubs.”
“The Blue Riband will be lavish, Miss Van Rowen. You’ll have much silver to steal.” His tone might have been cutting, but she was too excited by their plans and couldn’t hold back a grin. He frowned at her lips, then continued, “I’ve a lesser estate on the coast across the sea from Ireland. We’ll spend a night or two there before continuing north by rail to my family’s seat of Carrickliffe.”
“What’s Carrickliffe like? Do you think I’ll like it there? Is your clan nice? Will they like me? When I’m not tired and hungry, I’m usually very likable.”
“It’s a fine estate in the Highlands, with a castle, and, aye, any bride would like it. My clan is verra serious, verra solemn. I doona think they would know what to do with you.”
“In other words, they won’t like me.”
“Does no’ matter, since I’m rarely there. And besides, they doona like me either.”
She nodded without argument.
“What? You can easily see this?”
“Well, yes,” she answered. “You’re not very serious or solemn, so I expect that they don’t know what to do with you either.”
He looked at her as if she’d sprouted two heads. “I am serious and solemn.”
“No, you’re not. At the masquerade, you made me laugh. You had a devilish sense of humor that I enjoyed.”
“I think I would know
myself,” he said more gruffly.
“I won’t argue with you, Scot. Though now I do have to wonder exactly why they don’t like you.”
“Let’s have this discussion when you’ve been around me for a few days. It might become more apparent.”
She quirked a brow, deciding not to pursue that subject—yet. “What about your family?” she asked instead. “Do you have a big family? I’ve always wanted a big one. I wish I had siblings. I know you have one brother…” She trailed off. “You said he married Jane—that will make her my sister-in-law, too!”
“Aye, it would. And I have another brother who’s also recently married. My mother is still living, but I have no contact with her.”
“Oh. Are you close to your brothers?”
“I’d do anything for them, but I doona believe we’re close,” he said, revealing the tiniest hint of regret in his voice. For a man who seemed to cloak his emotions at every opportunity, his tone was telling. “Enough questions. We’ve much to do to prepare for the trip.”
She nodded. “Before we leave, I need to pack up some things—”
“You doona need to pack anything. I told you I’d buy you new. Besides, the spoils would no’be worth the effort.”
Her lips thinned. If he was going to continue ridiculing her poverty, then she was glad she hadn’t told him she could overlook his scar. She’d give up knowledge of that chink in his armor as soon as she deemed it unnecessary to possess.
“In any case, MacCarrick, I’d like to give some things to my friends and say good-bye to them.”
“We’ll see, if there’s time.”
It nettled her how dogmatic and domineering he was with her, but Maddy would pick her battles. If she was patient, with time she could manage him—she just needed to bite her tongue until she uncovered his weaknesses. Besides, she wouldn’t fight him on this—not until she’d determined he absolutely wouldn’t permit her to see her friends. “You know, since it appears that we’re actually going through with this, I think you should tell me how you got your scar.” When she touched it again, he looked as if he’d just stopped himself from flinching.
He hesitated before he said, “I was in a knife fight.”
Her eyes widened. “Did you kill someone? Was it broken up? Did you win?”
“I dinna win at first”—he cast her a disquieting smile—“but I did in the end.”
“Get my wife anything she could possibly need,” Ethan told the modiste at one of the most exclusive dressmaker’s in Paris. “Her trunks were lost, so we’ll be starting anew. And we’ll need garments to take with us today—a week’s worth of dresses.”
When he and Madeleine had first entered the shop, a few of the girls working inside had turned their noses up at Madeleine’s scuffed boots and worn clothes. She’d donned an indifferent expression, but he could tell she was embarrassed, and for some reason, the idea of that made his hackles rise. How dare they?
Ethan stressed to the modiste, “I want you and your employees to understand that nothing is too good, or too costly, for her. Her wardrobe—and their attitude—should reflect that.”
The woman nodded enthusiastically, and a sharp clap of her hands sent shopgirls rushing to set up garments and fabrics in a back dressing room.
Madeleine grabbed his arm and tried to steer him aside. “No, MacCarrick,” she urgently whispered, “An entire wardrobe? Not in a place like this—that will cost a fortune! There are bargain shops on Rue de la Paix.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said we have a lot in common. In your situation, I would take me for all I’m worth.”
“I’m not in this for the short cull. Your continued healthy finances are very important to me.”
“So that you will no’ harp on this, I’ll tell you what I make a year—just on rents.”
When he told her, she actually swayed as her jaw slackened. “You’re not lying? Not jesting?” He shook his head. “Oh. In that case, I’ll spend with impunity.”
“Fine. Now, doona be uncomfortable with the girls for staring at your shabby clothes,” he told her in a patronizing tone. “These women matter no’ at all.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “And you shouldn’t be uncomfortable either. Even if they likely think your scar is”—she paused, then enunciated—“big.”
When he made comments about her poverty, she ridiculed his scar. He was coming to see it as a game they played. “Have your fun, then. But now you’ll have one less dress to call your own.”
“Then that’s one less dress you can almost rip off me.”
He frowned down at her. “Do you have an answer for everything?”
“Yes. But I specialize in questions,” she said, wandering off to survey scarves.
Ach, she baffled him. He was beginning to think she was a little too clever. If he wasn’t careful, this game could come back to bite him on the arse.
When he’d awakened this morning, he’d sensed her leaning over him and had feigned sleep, until she’d begun to touch him so sensually and tenderly. He’d opened his eyes to find her staring down at him.
Damn if she hadn’t been aroused, her pupils dilated, breaths shallow. He’d savored it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d known for a fact that a woman truly desired him.
In the past, the few women who’d seemed to be aroused by his scar had invariably liked more pain in their bed play than pleasure. Ethan was all for a hard, teeth-clattering tup—preferred it, in fact—but he had no interest in flaying a woman’s skin.
Madeleine was beautiful, and if she’d deemed him attractive, then perhaps he wasn’t as bad off as he’d thought. Perhaps he’d been overly critical of his face, his demeanor affecting his appeal with women.
He knew that soon he’d wear Madeleine down, and once she’d succumbed to him fully and he’d tired of her, he’d explore this with other women, voluptuous women with bouncing breasts who liked hard sex….
Even as he thought it, his eyes were drawn to Madeleine. He could admit she had surprised him—in fact, she continued to with her unusual behavior. He watched her caressing the silks and began to grow hard yet again. For a man who’d feared himself quit of this feeling, he was astonished at how easily she aroused him.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. Madeleine had seemed to be obsessed with touching, and now he discovered it was a clever ruse to cover her thefts. She was skilled, extraordinarily so, and if he hadn’t been trained to descry minute details, he never would have noticed what she was doing.
He strode over to her. “Put it back,” he commanded under his breath.
She gave him an innocent look, with guileless blue eyes. “What are you talking a—”
He squeezed her elbow, silencing her, and she finally unthreaded the silk scarf from her blouse sleeve.
“Madeleine, the little thieveries must end.”
She cocked a brow. “So sure they’re little?”
“Christ, I wonder if you’re no’ worse than I am.” He didn’t mind people suffering if they wronged him first. Actually, he relished it. But he had no feud with this store owner, and she might not be able to easily suffer these losses.
“You steal, gamble, and speak the cant of the streets. If I’m to be our moral guide, we’re both hellbound, lass.”
She gazed up at him, lips curling. “But at least we’d be together.”
He knew she was teasing, but she still disarmed him, and his anger began evaporating….
When the modiste invited Madeleine to sit down with her and peruse fashion books, Ethan was provided coffee and a newspaper in English. He tried to read, but he grew distracted by Madeleine’s voice, though she spoke softly, in a lilting French. Her questions and comments surprised him—as did her confidence when speaking with the older modiste.
“But what if you did this fabric and the ruche like this? With some bombazine?” she asked. “And why must that one be symmetrical? If this is hunter green sateen and atilt, it will look vanguard but elegant at the same time.”
The woman stammered some answer.
“No, no, madam, this should be a stiff collar, upturned high on the neck and open here. And if the petticoat is visible, then we must make sure it’s fabulous—I know, a white tulle over rich glacé silk!”
When they finished and Madeleine went off to choose reticules and gloves, the modiste approached Ethan. Her expression was overwhelmed, probably resembling the one he’d been sporting quite a bit of late.
“Your wife’s taste is…” She trailed off, and Ethan thought she would say unusual or interesting.
“…amazing. She has untouchable instincts with fabrics and color.”
“Aye, naturally,” he said, as if he were well aware of this. “Just make sure you leave room to let out her gowns….” He trailed off when Madeleine stared past him to the store’s front window, her eyes going wide.
He swung his head around, expecting to see the henchmen outside. Instead, he caught sight of a well-dressed man with a more garishly clad woman strolling by and slowing, no doubt intending to enter the shop.
Madeleine was staring at the man only. Ethan sensed something cold about him, something dangerous—which might explain why the blood had rushed from Madeleine’s face.
Twenty-three
Maddy darted behind a bolt of cloth, unrolling it to hide behind, struggling to calm her breaths. She’d felt MacCarrick’s eyes on her and knew he must be puzzled, but Toumard was just outside! And looked as if he might enter at any time.
As was customary, Maddy had noted a back door when they’d first arrived and was easing toward it when MacCarrick told the modiste, “We’ll have the shop to ourselves this morning.”
“But, monsieur—”
“Close up. I’ll spend more in a couple of hours than you’ll make this week. If we have leisure and privacy in buying it.”
Maddy peeked from behind her cloth, trying to see him as these women did. His bearing screamed wealth—that was obvious. His clothes were unadorned but finely made and unmistakably expensive. Yes, he appeared rich, but he also appeared powerful—and, with the scar, menacing.
Kresley Cole - [MacCarrick Brothers 03] Page 16
